Kelly Garriott Waite's Blog, page 3
February 3, 2014
Manipulated
Jenner scratched his tattoo.
"That new?" Terri nodded.
"My emancipation day."
"Divorce finalized?"
He spat. "Yup."
Terry felt the faint stirrings of hope. Since high school, she'd pined after Jenner. "I wish you'd settle down. Carnival life..."
"Is perfect for me."
"I see you once a year."
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"That new?" Terri nodded.
"My emancipation day."
"Divorce finalized?"
He spat. "Yup."
Terry felt the faint stirrings of hope. Since high school, she'd pined after Jenner. "I wish you'd settle down. Carnival life..."
"Is perfect for me."
"I see you once a year."
To read more, click here.
February 1, 2014
Things Abandoned
Loraine studied David’s portfolio, pausing to frown over the photograph of the barn, white paint peeling from its tired sides. He watched her eyes for some sign.
“Your subjects are always something thrown away or given up on.” Her nails were red. Her hair, recently cut and styled.
“Abandoned.” He preferred the word abandoned.
“OK, abandoned. Why?”
He leaned back in the leather chair. “In ten years, these chairs will be worn out, likely sooner.”
She shrugged. “The agency will get replacements.”
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“Your subjects are always something thrown away or given up on.” Her nails were red. Her hair, recently cut and styled.
“Abandoned.” He preferred the word abandoned.
“OK, abandoned. Why?”
He leaned back in the leather chair. “In ten years, these chairs will be worn out, likely sooner.”
She shrugged. “The agency will get replacements.”
To read more, click here
January 31, 2014
Good Fortune
Yesterday morning, as I was squinting over the microscopic print on my computer screen, the right lens of my reading glasses popped out and flew across the room. I assessed the damage (cracked frame) and popped the lens back in, it tentatively agreeing to stay put. But this was a sign, I was sure, that it wasn’t the day to go to the coffee shop to write: A woman loses enough credibility when she must resort to slipping on those horrible eye-distorting reading glasses that give the wearer a perpetually astonished look. But that credibility slides further downhill when a lens drops out and splashes into a cup of coffee.
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January 30, 2014
Most Beautiful
She looked most beautiful when she wasn’t trying.
That is to say, she looked most beautiful when she felt no need to impress old Bic Johnston next door, the landlord who wandered out every morning on uncertain legs to bestow upon her a slimy and lecherous grin, all the while inquiring after the rent.
Or Timmy Davis, her own brother-in-law, the mechanic who spat tobacco juice in her front yard and winked, promising to keep her motor running and laughing wickedly.
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That is to say, she looked most beautiful when she felt no need to impress old Bic Johnston next door, the landlord who wandered out every morning on uncertain legs to bestow upon her a slimy and lecherous grin, all the while inquiring after the rent.
Or Timmy Davis, her own brother-in-law, the mechanic who spat tobacco juice in her front yard and winked, promising to keep her motor running and laughing wickedly.
To read more, click here.
January 29, 2014
Uncle Bruce
“What are you doing here?” Irene held her magnifying glass over the photograph.
“Who?” I leaned over my sister’s shoulder, trying to see.
“It’s hard to tell in this light, but…” She ran her fingers over the faces of our relatives, as if trying to read the history of their lives. “All these people. All these smiling people. Gone. And their stories with them, I’m afraid.”
“We can’t get every story down, Irene.” My sister the historian. Trying to gather the clues to her life from ancient history stored in attics, musty basements, even, in one case, beneath the bridge a homeless uncle once called home. “You spend too much time in the past, you forget about the future.”
She glowered at me. “I like the past.”
“Why?”
“I’m comfortable there.”
I laughed and tears immediately sprung to my sister’s eyes. “I’m sorry, Irene.”
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“Who?” I leaned over my sister’s shoulder, trying to see.
“It’s hard to tell in this light, but…” She ran her fingers over the faces of our relatives, as if trying to read the history of their lives. “All these people. All these smiling people. Gone. And their stories with them, I’m afraid.”
“We can’t get every story down, Irene.” My sister the historian. Trying to gather the clues to her life from ancient history stored in attics, musty basements, even, in one case, beneath the bridge a homeless uncle once called home. “You spend too much time in the past, you forget about the future.”
She glowered at me. “I like the past.”
“Why?”
“I’m comfortable there.”
I laughed and tears immediately sprung to my sister’s eyes. “I’m sorry, Irene.”
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Balance of Color
“We paint our world in shades of expectations and dreams.”
“My dreams. Society’s expectations.”
“It’s a balance.”
I look again at the black and white. Will some color to bleed onto the print.
This was written for this week’s Trifecta Writing Challenge: We were to write to a photo prompt in thirty-three words. The image may be found here:
Kelly Garriott Waite on Google+
“My dreams. Society’s expectations.”
“It’s a balance.”
I look again at the black and white. Will some color to bleed onto the print.
This was written for this week’s Trifecta Writing Challenge: We were to write to a photo prompt in thirty-three words. The image may be found here:
Kelly Garriott Waite on Google+
January 27, 2014
Something Extraordinary
Louisa watched her mother pass the potatoes to her husband, a neat pat of butter softening into the top “Mom?”
“Yes?”
“My tooth.” Louisa grinned and revealed the bloody warrior in her palm.
Her stepfather rolled his eyes, helped himself to the pool of butter and a large portion of potatoes beneath. “Must you do that at the table?”
“Oh, let her alone, Charles.”
“Eleanor.” Louisa could taste the sharp menace in his voice. A warning her mother too-often ignored of late.
“What harm in a tooth?”
“Rinse your mouth, child.”
Louisa immediately rose and went to the lavatory. She sat on the toilet, admiring her prize: the soft crimson center, the long roots on the left side that hadn’t quite been ready to surrender; the rootless right side that had long ago given up their claim to her mouth.
To read more, click here.
“Yes?”
“My tooth.” Louisa grinned and revealed the bloody warrior in her palm.
Her stepfather rolled his eyes, helped himself to the pool of butter and a large portion of potatoes beneath. “Must you do that at the table?”
“Oh, let her alone, Charles.”
“Eleanor.” Louisa could taste the sharp menace in his voice. A warning her mother too-often ignored of late.
“What harm in a tooth?”
“Rinse your mouth, child.”
Louisa immediately rose and went to the lavatory. She sat on the toilet, admiring her prize: the soft crimson center, the long roots on the left side that hadn’t quite been ready to surrender; the rootless right side that had long ago given up their claim to her mouth.
To read more, click here.
January 25, 2014
Last Laugh
Summers, we perched on the stoop, pointing mocking fingers as she minced down the sidewalk in heels one size too small because Goodwill had nothing bigger.
“Cheapskate.” Billy said.
“Skinny bones.” Jay.
“Tramp.” Frank dared, covering his mouth with both hands after.
Summer bled into fall. We tucked away our shorts, tucked ourselves into uniforms, neatly patched and pressed, tucked ourselves onto the train that whisked us to school.
We filed into English, folded ourselves into desks, gaped at the front of the room where she stood, still mincing in too-small shoes, a length of fresh chalk in her hand.
This was written for this week’s 100 Words on Saturday at The Write Tribe: She had the last laugh.
Kelly Garriott Waite on Google+
To read more, click here.
“Cheapskate.” Billy said.
“Skinny bones.” Jay.
“Tramp.” Frank dared, covering his mouth with both hands after.
Summer bled into fall. We tucked away our shorts, tucked ourselves into uniforms, neatly patched and pressed, tucked ourselves onto the train that whisked us to school.
We filed into English, folded ourselves into desks, gaped at the front of the room where she stood, still mincing in too-small shoes, a length of fresh chalk in her hand.
This was written for this week’s 100 Words on Saturday at The Write Tribe: She had the last laugh.
Kelly Garriott Waite on Google+
To read more, click here.
January 24, 2014
To Grow in Darkness
After, when the war had ended and an uneasy peace had settled upon the village, Galina returned to us. Thinner, yes. We all were thinner, of course. But taller, too. And wiser. Certainly wiser.
Without intending to, she became our leader. We needed someone to look up to. She was the best we’d had since Markus had been killed the winter before. Galina could use a bow. Could hunt and trap. Legend was, she’d killed thirteen men.
Lucky thirteen.
She divided us into groups without regard to family connections: Those strong in weaponry moved to the east side of the village and began forging axes, spears and lances for the next war that Galina claimed would come at any time.
Strong men and boys brought buckets of water forth from the spring to replenish the wells that had been allowed to run dry.
Gatherers were sent to the fields, to glean what they could from the ruined crops before expanding to the woods in search of mushrooms and berries and the herbs known to grow in darkness.
The rest of the village, the remaining nine of us, were to clean up the ruins that were our homes: broken earthenware, crude utensils and shattered doors. All were to be brought to the center of the village where we would mend what we could in the evenings after the sun had faded from the sky.
Galina herself would hunt for meat.
To read more, click here.
Without intending to, she became our leader. We needed someone to look up to. She was the best we’d had since Markus had been killed the winter before. Galina could use a bow. Could hunt and trap. Legend was, she’d killed thirteen men.
Lucky thirteen.
She divided us into groups without regard to family connections: Those strong in weaponry moved to the east side of the village and began forging axes, spears and lances for the next war that Galina claimed would come at any time.
Strong men and boys brought buckets of water forth from the spring to replenish the wells that had been allowed to run dry.
Gatherers were sent to the fields, to glean what they could from the ruined crops before expanding to the woods in search of mushrooms and berries and the herbs known to grow in darkness.
The rest of the village, the remaining nine of us, were to clean up the ruins that were our homes: broken earthenware, crude utensils and shattered doors. All were to be brought to the center of the village where we would mend what we could in the evenings after the sun had faded from the sky.
Galina herself would hunt for meat.
To read more, click here.
January 22, 2014
Eden
“Eden’s bin trapping again.” Billy Burth stormed into the cabin, breathing heavily, his left hand grasping the latch.
Dink continued chopping tomatoes. He knew there’d be trouble as soon as he saw Billy stamping up the mountain path, fists clenched, face red. “Beer?”
Billy nodded and closed the cabin door. “You make this latch?”
“Suffolk latch. Made the hinges, too.” Dink grabbed two beers and a bottle opener. “Let me show you the back porch.” He slid open the glass door and stepped outside. The sun angled onto the porch, highlighting the grains of the wood Dink had reclaimed and restored. Billy ran a finger along a railing. “I never figgered you as a man to work with wood and iron.”
Read more here.
Dink continued chopping tomatoes. He knew there’d be trouble as soon as he saw Billy stamping up the mountain path, fists clenched, face red. “Beer?”
Billy nodded and closed the cabin door. “You make this latch?”
“Suffolk latch. Made the hinges, too.” Dink grabbed two beers and a bottle opener. “Let me show you the back porch.” He slid open the glass door and stepped outside. The sun angled onto the porch, highlighting the grains of the wood Dink had reclaimed and restored. Billy ran a finger along a railing. “I never figgered you as a man to work with wood and iron.”
Read more here.
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